


I Go to Prepare a Place for You

by BrighteyedJill



Series: In My Master's House 'Verse [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Dom/sub, Humiliation, M/M, Master/Slave, Mind Games, Paddling, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-07
Updated: 2011-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 21:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock unravels a conspiracy against the state, Mycroft undertakes a project, Lestrade prevents people from murdering each other, and John has difficulty keeping secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, not necessarily healthy or well-negotiated D/s dynamics, humiliation, rough sex, corporal punishment including paddling  
>  **Context:** Part of the [My Master’s House](http://brighteyed-jill.livejournal.com/98015.html) universe. I suggest you [begin at the beginning](http://brighteyed-jill.livejournal.com/98015.html#cutid1), but here’s all you really need to know: It’s a modern day slave AU. John belongs Sherlock, Lestrade belongs to Mycroft, and both the Holmses are important personages in the Empire.  
>  **Notes:** Thanks to [](http://morganstuart.livejournal.com/profile)[**morganstuart**](http://morganstuart.livejournal.com/) for providing indispensible character insights, [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaune_chat**](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/) for late-night plot-fixing gchats, and [](http://blue-eyed-1987.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://blue-eyed-1987.livejournal.com/)**blue_eyed_1987** for helping my characters pass as British.  
> 

“Furthermore,” Sherlock said, as if they’d been in the middle of a discussion rather than panting out the aftermath of their orgasms, “There will be no dancing. I’ve agreed to attend the insipid banquet, but I draw the line at dancing. So tell Lestrade you can stop practising.”

“Thank god.” John didn’t bother to ask how Sherlock had known what he’d been up to in the banquet hall earlier that day—or was it the day before, now that dawn was approaching?

It had become something of a ritual for John, waking up to Sherlock returning to the room in the darkest hours of the night. Sleeping in his own room was no better; Sherlock had easily figured out how to bypass the security system. And if someone’s room was going to bear the brunt of Sherlock’s inevitable fits of pique, John would much rather it not be his.

“What did you learn about the guest list?” Sherlock asked.

With his blood still pounding in his ears and the taste of Sherlock in his mouth, it took a moment for John’s brain to sort through that and establish some sort of context. He asked, “Was I meant to be learning something?”

“How am I to work without data?”

“Lord Mycroft was looking at a guest list, but I didn’t see it.”

“Did you even try, John?” Sherlock looked pained.

John felt too wrung out for anything but honesty. “Not really.”

“Sometimes I despair of you. You couldn’t have managed a peek? I’m sure Lestrade had him well distracted.”

“Hm.” John pushed away the memory of the look in Lestrade’s eyes as Mycroft had danced with him. Things had seemed so easy between them. John made an effort to remember Mycroft’s words, instead. “He did say the young price was coming.”

“Princes, dull. And not why he’s keeping the list from me.” Sherlock exhaled sharply, in the childlike way he did when taking offense at the failure of the universe to bend itself to his will. “In the same room as the list and no bloody data. You’re useless, John.”

“Thanks for that,” John said. He was learning not to take such pronouncement personally.

“But you’re not always useless.” Sherlock rolled over onto his stomach and fixed his curious gaze on John’s face. “Tell me your experience of love.”

John frowned. “What does that even mean?”

“The first time you were in love, what did it feel like? How did you act?”

 _I’ve never been in love._ It was on the tip of John’s tongue, but something stopped him from admitting it. “Why are you asking?”His mind spun, panicked, through several heady possibilities before he saw a more logical one. “Oh, the case. You’re trying to understand the daughter’s motives.”

“Yes, of course it’s the case. The work, John. Tell me.”

“I don’t want to.” John’s lingering afterglow was rapidly evaporating. He tried to turn onto his side, away from the conversation, but Sherlock flung a hand across his body to pin him down.

“Now, John.”

“You can’t expect me to obey orders I don’t like just because they come from you,” John snapped.

“Yes I can! That’s the very definition of your duty as a slave.”

“You don’t want mindless obedience.”

“Obeying me isn’t mindless obedience. All my orders make perfect logical sense.” Sherlock rolled on top of John and pinned his wrists on either side of his head. “Now tell me.”

John couldn’t manage the proper level of indignation. He was tired: it was the middle of the night, he’d been on his feet all day, and he’d just been shagged senseless. Furthermore, he doubted that getting angry would convince Sherlock of anything. “No,” he said wearily.

“John,” Sherlock said warningly. “Tell me.”

“Or what? You’ll hit me?”

“No,” Sherlock said. Disgust for the suggestions was written on his face, but he didn’t release his hold on John’s wrists.

John tried speaking slowly and enunciating clearly, as he might for someone whose first language was not the one John spoke. “There are parts of me you don’t own, and I have the choice to keep those parts or give them away. Me. Understand?”

“Not yet.” Sherlock uncurled his fingers and ran them down John’s arms. “But I’ll find the answer.” Sherlock slithered out of bed. In the yellow glow of the bedside lamp, he picked his way across the clothes, papers, and other detritus spread across the bedroom floor and made his way to the fireplace. He pulled a black case out from under the chair in front of the dying fire and lifted out—of all things—a handsome violin the colour of dark honey.

For a moment, John worried that he was about to witness the destruction of something beautiful. But Sherlock simply held the instrument in one hand and the bow in the other and stood for a long moment.

“Do you even know how to play?” John asked.

Sherlock set the violin down on the table next to the chair. “Not for you.” Sherlock folded his long-limbed, naked body into the chair and press his hands together beneath his chin. He displayed no intention of moving.

John’s eyes strayed to the violin. It looked old, probably expensive. It didn’t have the shiny newness of a museum piece. The worn appearance spoke of many previous owners and frequent handling. It was a curious thing for a man of science like Sherlock to own such an item.

“Do you really play the violin?”

Sherlock didn’t open his eyes.

“Play for me.” John leaned back against the pillows. Alone in the bed, in the safety of the night time, he felt he could ask Sherlock anything. After all, Sherlock never hesitated to silence or belittle John when he didn’t like the direction of a conversation, so John interpreted his silence as permission. “I like Mendelssohn,” he said helpfully.

“Oh, the Germans. You would,” Sherlock said, but it came out weakly, as if he had to reach for something to criticize about the request.

“Fine, then. Play what you like.”

Sherlock unfurled from the chair, and for a moment John thought he might have earned a punishment for his cheek. Instead, Sherlock snatched up the instrument again. He tucked it under his chin before turning his back to John. The bow came up and hovered above the strings. John watched silently. Sherlock breathed deep—John saw his ribcage expand—and began to play.

John didn’t recognize the music. The song began low, tremulous, with Sherlock’s bow hand moving smoothly and gracefully over the strings. In a few seconds, the tune expanded into a hopeful upward sweep. Sherlock’s fingers flew. The lean muscles in Sherlock’s back shifted fluidly as he played.

John sat up in bed to watch more closely.

Sherlock stopped abruptly and whirled to look over his shoulder.

John sat still, legs folded under him, listening. Sherlock turned back around and resumed playing. The soaring melody continued, swirling around a crescendo and doubling back on itself in a way that put John in mind of a pair of playful birds. At last, Sherlock drew a long, mournful note out of the violin that faded away into silence. He dropped his bow hand to his side, but didn’t turn around.

“That,” John said, “was fantastic. I’ve never heard music played like that.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock settled the violin back in its case with the bow.

“Who was the composer?”

“It’s a new song,” Sherlock said, as if that explained something. He returned to his chair and folded his knees up as before. “Now. Tell me about love.”

“I’ve never been in love,” John said. He didn’t stop to think about whether or not to answer Sherlock’s question. His response seemed a natural exchange of one confidence for another. He noticed Sherlock’s pained frown, so he elaborated. “I’ve loved people, been loved, but not like that. Not the way you’re asking.”

Sherlock examined him through narrowed eyes for several seconds. “You’re telling the truth.”

“Is that so surprising?” John shook his head against the pillow. “Love isn’t something that happens easily or often, at least in my experience. We’re equally ignorant in this area.”

“Equally--?” Sherlock’s eyes widened comically. He broke out in delighted laughter that shook his narrow frame. “John, please. Don’t be absurd.” Sherlock strode toward the bed, pushed John over, and delivered a kiss to his forehead before flopping face down on the bed.

John sat watching Sherlock for a few minutes before his eyes drifted to the violin from which Sherlock had summoned such stirring music. The instrument was just barely visible in its open case beneath Sherlock’s favourite chair. Obviously Sherlock took care of the violin, and had learned to play it as it deserved to be played. Funny. John wouldn’t have thought Sherlock would go to the effort for something so seemingly mundane.

“It’s a Stradivarius,” Sherlock muttered.

“Come again?”

“Worth more than it looks like.” With that, Sherlock tugged the covers up over his shoulders and curled up on his side.

John lay still and listened to Sherlock’s breathing even out before he allowed himself to settle into sleep.  
\--

Lestrade leaned back and dug his hands into Mycroft’s thighs to get more leverage. When he pushed himself up, Mycroft’s cock slid directly against the spot that made his knees buckle and sent him crashing down again, taking Mycroft to the hilt.

No windows in this room—too much of a security risk—so now that the fire’s last embers had died, the room admitted no light at all. Lestrade couldn’t see Mycroft’s eyes in the pitch darkness, but he heard a sharp rush of air, and knew Mycroft felt something, too.

Lestrade pushed himself up again, more slowly this time. His cock twitched at the sensation of Mycroft sliding inside of him. He lowered himself carefully, relishing the burn in the muscles of his thighs. Once he was fully impaled on Mycroft’s prick, he rocked his hips a bit, enjoying the stretch.

Mycroft petted his hands down Lestrade’s sides and settled them on his thighs. “Gregory,” he said quietly; the word was a life raft of sound in the vast silence of the dark room.

“Alright,” said Lestrade. He set up a rhythm, fucking himself slowly on Mycroft’s cock, but giving more than the torturous teasing he’d been inflicting.

Mycroft’s right hand abandoned its place on Lestrade’s thigh to wrap unerringly around Lestrade’s erection. In the darkness, Lestrade couldn’t see Mycroft move. He could only track his motions by his touch on Lestrade’s skin: now stroking him firmly around the shaft, now running his thumb lightly over the head.

“Tell me,” Mycroft said. “Do you think of me, when we’re not together?”

“My life revolves around your service, my liege.”

Mycroft squeezed his hand around Lestrade’s cock, firmly, but not enough to hurt. “Don’t tease, Gregory.”

Lestrade wished he could see Mycroft’s expression, because he wanted some clue about what answer to give. In the absence of such clues, the darkness made him bold. “Alright, yes. Of course I think of you.”

“What do you call me, in your head?”

Lestrade pushed himself up, then slid down on Mycroft again to relieve some of the need that fogged his thoughts. “As in, what name?”

“Yes.”

“Mycroft,” he said, and rocked his hips forward to feel Mycroft inside of him.

“Not Lord Mycroft. Not master.”

“No.” Lestrade froze, then, and felt the darkness pressing in on him. He reached for Mycroft, caught the side of his neck, and held on. “Why? Do you want me to – ”

“No.” Mycroft folded his hand over Lestrade’s. “No.” He gave Lestrade a gentle shove with his other hand, sending him tumbling off Mycroft, onto his side. When Mycroft rolled with him, Lestrade went obligingly onto his back, and pulled his legs to his chest. Mycroft braced himself on all fours, looming over Lestrade like a shield against the darkness beyond.

“You’re so beautiful.”

“You can’t see me. It’s dark,” Lestrade panted, but it was difficult to form the words through the haze of his need.

“You’re magnificent, whether I see you or not.” Mycroft pressed a quick kiss to Lestrade’s chest before drawing back.

Lestrade held still, waiting for Mycroft’s touch to move him into a new position. Instead, he felt Mycroft’s lips wrap around the head of his cock.

Lestrade gave a startled shout, and only a desperate burst of self-control saved him from bucking up reflexively. As wet warmth enveloped more of him, Lestrade set up an internal litany of _please please please please please_. _Please don’t come yet_ and _please keep doing that forever_ and _please someone explain what’s happening_.

For all the time they’d spent in bed together, this—Mycroft’s masterful mouth sucking Lestrade down—hadn’t happened often. Twice. Perhaps three times. Not in months and months. And now, just feeling a clever tongue circling the head of his cock, without being able to look down and see Mycroft in bed with him, Lestrade could hardly believe it was happening.

“Please,” Lestrade whispered. He clutched at the bedclothes and concentrated on pressing his spine into the mattress so as not to demand more than Mycroft saw fit to give.

But Mycroft wasn’t holding back: Lestrade felt the head of his cock nudge against the back of Mycroft’s throat. He began sucking in earnest, dragging the tight ring of his lips up and down Lestrade’s shaft and doing wicked things with his tongue.

Lestrade wished again for some light, so he could watch this happen. Even the mental image of Mycroft kneeling between his thighs, looking up at Lestrade with his mouth stretched around Lestrade’s dick, took Lestrade dangerously close to the edge. He desperately wanted to touch, but didn’t dare. His hands clenched uselessly against his thighs. “Mycroft,” he said urgently. “Mycroft, Mycroft.”

Mycroft took Lestrade in to the root, even as he reached two fingers back and slid them into Lestrade’s stretched hole.

Lestrade’s control snapped. His hips thrust up and his hands clamped down on Mycroft’s shoulders as his orgasm tore through him. Mycroft swallowed everything Lestrade gave him, and held Lestrade in his mouth until he slumped helplessly against the sheets.

Mycroft pounced. He pushed Lestrade’s right leg up and over his shoulder and slid easily inside. With Mycroft braced over him, Lestrade could feel the changes he couldn’t see: Mycroft’s quickened breathing, his arms tense and strong, his need palpable as he slammed into Lestrade. In this position, he penetrated Lestrade more deeply, sending sparks of pleasure to buoy the glow on which Lestrade floated.

Mycroft took him hard, with a kind of raw desperation Lestrade hadn’t seen from him before.

“Mycroft,” he panted, when he could draw breath between punishing thrusts. “Yes.”

Mycroft shouted, inarticulate and unguarded as he never was outside of this room. He buried himself inside Lestrade, pressing them together tightly as he shuddered out his pleasure.

There was a moment of stillness in which Lestrade could hear only the gallop of his heart in counterpoint to Mycroft’s, which thumped against his chest.

Mycroft leaned in close, dropping haphazard kisses on Lestrade’s cheek, his forehead, and his nose, until he finally found Lestrade’s mouth and pressed his lips against it as if resting there.

Lestrade allowed himself the indulgence of wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s waist. He waited for Mycroft to slump against him. His internal clock told him they could afford a few more hours of quiet entanglement before dawn.

But Mycroft didn’t relax in Lestrade’s embrace. He held himself up, arms shaking. He ducked his head into the crook of Lestrade’s neck, rubbing his face along the collar there.

“Mycroft. It’s early, still.” He traced a hand down Mycroft’s side. “Lie down.”

Mycroft abruptly extricated himself from Lestrade’s embrace and rolled to the side. The mattress shifted as his weight left it.

Lestrade pushed himself up to sitting. He reached out a hand, but encountered only empty space.

Mycroft pushed open the door to the en suite and flipped on the light. Though it seemed unbearably harsh after the velvety darkness, Lestrade squinted into the bright white light that haloed around Mycroft’s form. His back was to the room, and his hands braced against the doorframe.

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft turned slightly, then seemed to think better of it. He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. A minute later, Lestrade heard the shower start up.  
\--

John pulled his medical kit out of the drawer and flipped the small switch that popped open the hidden compartment. He picked up the Sig—incomplete now, without ammunition—and held it at his side. He liked the feel of the grip in his hand. He gave himself only a moment of indulgence before replacing the gun in the kit and tucking it back in the bureau.

He was stretching the amount of time necessary to bathe, change, and generally prepare himself for the day, but he doubted Sherlock would notice. The genius had larger things to concern himself with than the mundane routine of one slave. Like this thing with the Chinese ambassador. John could probably have sat idle in his room all morning for all the help he’d proven to be. The one time Sherlock had actually asked for his help, John hadn’t been able to provide a proper answer.

 _”What does it feel like to be in love.”_ Bloody hell. Even as an emotional interpreter, John was turning out to be useless. But he couldn’t bear the thought of giving up on Sherlock. He wanted to see how this mad case would turn out. Specifically, he wanted to be there when Lord Sherlock Holmes figured out exactly how love figured as a motivation. So he returned to his master.

Sherlock sat folded up in his favourite chair, pecking at his laptop, “Oh good, you’re back. Undress.”

“Why?”

“I want to look at your back.”

“That’s what you want to look at,” John said slowly.

“The marks from the riding crop should be completely healed. I want to see your skin in its natural condition, for future comparison.”

“Right,” John said. He closed his eyes. Because he could expect to be beaten frequently in the future. Over and over again, in fact, until Sherlock tired of the game or of John. He tugged off his clothes with no attempt at finesse, and let them fall haphazardly on the floor. Then he stood still while Sherlock concentrated on his laptop. He wouldn’t beg for Sherlock’s attention this time.

A tentative knock rang out at the door.

“Come,” Sherlock called absently.

John fixed his eyes on the carpet as a young woman in the uniform of Mycroft’s household guard bustled in. She didn’t so much as look his way; he may as well have been a piece of furniture. The woman handed Sherlock a folded piece of paper.

He flipped it open and made a face. “No, tell him sport is unbearably dull, and I’ve better things to do with my extremely valuable time. Wait.” Sherlock ran a finger over the paper. “No. Tell him I’ll consider it. And wait a moment.” He reached into a drawer in the desk, pulled out some heavy stationary and a pen, and began to scribble a note.

John looked between the guard and Sherlock, but the woman kept her eyes straight ahead, fixed on the wall.

Sherlock tossed down his pen. He folded his note neatly and sealed it before handing it to the guard. “Bring me this note tomorrow at half nine precisely. Precisely, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be in either the front hall or by the back kitchen entrance.”

“Yes, sir.” She slipped the note into her pocket and gave a shallow bow. On her way out, the woman did not steal a glance at John’s naked form. John wondered whether she was too well trained to peek, or if she simply had no interest in him.

“It’s out of respect for you,” Sherlock said. “She was born a slave. A family member paid off her contract to free her, three to five years ago.”

John didn’t need to ask how Sherlock had traced the path of his thoughts. Instead, he asked, “Mycroft let her stay on and work as a free citizen?”

“Heavens no. She’s been here less than a year. Didn’t disclose her past position, but I daresay my meddlesome brother knows about it. She wouldn’t have got a job, otherwise.” Sherlock waved a hand negligently. “I’m given to understand that a past as a slave is not something one overcomes.”

“Right,” John said tightly. He mulled over that bleak pronouncement while Sherlock typed merrily away. He was so lost in morose contemplation that he almost missed the snap of Sherlock’s fingers.

“John, come.”

“I’m not actually an animal. I can understand full sentences,” John said.

“And presumably shorter ones as well,” Sherlock said with a curl of his lip. John approached. “Turn around.”

John turned his back to Sherlock and held still. His soldier’s instincts hated turning his back to danger, but he held them in check and obeyed. He half expected something shocking or painful: the bite of a knife breaking his skin, or an electric jolt to bring him to his knees. Instead, Sherlock’s fingertips pressed dry and warm against the nape of his neck. Slowly, slowly, those fingertips traced down each knob of John’s spine, and came to rest of his coccyx, with his palm ghosting over the muscle of John’s arse.

“If not as good as new, at least as good as the shape I found you in,” Sherlock said. His fingers left John’s skin, and John swayed a bit, as if he’d lost the support holding him up.

Sherlock’s touch returned almost immediately, when he dug the tips of his fingers into the knotty scar tissue of John’s shoulder. John’s eyes drifted closed. He imagined he could feel the muzzle of a gun pressing against the matching scar on his front.

“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asked.

“Not always,” John said. He hadn’t been as diligent with his physiotherapy exercises as he should have been, and the neglect showed. “It’s something I’ve learned to live with.”

Sherlock’s palm flattened against the old wound. “It’s not as if you’ve a choice.”

“If you don’t like looking at it, I can put my clothes back on.”

Sherlock’s fingers dug in harder, then released quickly. “I’ve got you some clothes.”

“I have clothes.”

“They’re in my wardrobe,” Sherlock said, as if John hadn’t spoken. “Go on.”

John didn’t give himself time to form any expectations before tugging open the ornately carved wardrobe doors. On the left, Sherlock’s clothes—bespoke jackets, shirts, and trousers—hung in neat rows. On the right, one shelf had been cleared of Sherlock’s neatly paired socks to make way for some things plainly not meant for Sherlock’s use. For one thing, the soft, knit jumper he pulled from the pile wouldn’t have fit his master.

“These are for me?”

“The clothes you have don’t suit you. And anyway, I don’t wish to be seen with a slave that looks... frumpy.” Sherlock waved a hand that took in John’s button-down and tan trousers, the uniform Mycroft had provided.

John couldn’t help a chuckle at the extent of Sherlock’s disgust. “Right,” he said. Of course it was all about Sherlock.

“Stand still.” Sherlock set aside his laptop. He bustled over to John. He plucked several items off the shelf and began re-dressing John like an overgrown doll. When he finished, he steered John toward the room’s full-length mirror.

Sherlock stood beside John and gave a satisfied nod at the ensemble of dark jeans, collared shirt, and sand-coloured jumper.

John had to admit, he looked more like himself than he had since returning from Afghanistan. If it weren’t for the heavy black collar with its seal marking him as Lord Sherlock’s property, he might not have remembered he was a slave.

Sherlock’s hand drifted up to touch the back of the collar. “That’s an improvement,” he said.

John tugged at the cuffs of his jumper, mostly as an excuse to duck his head forward, pulling away from Sherlock’s touch. He saw Sherlock’s quick frown in the mirror, and felt an unaccountable stab of guilt. “Thank you,” he said. “The clothes _are_ an improvement.”

Sherlock gave a curt nod. The he snatched his phone out of his pocket and began jabbing at the buttons. “I require your assistance with something.” He held his phone up in front of John, displaying a photo.

John spent several seconds trying to determine what he was seeing. “Is that blood?” he asked at last.

“Yes.” Sherlock snatched the phone back. “Very unusual spatter, in fact.”

“Whose blood?”

“What? Oh, the son of the Chinese Ambassador, in a hotel back in Hong Kong. Doesn’t that make a delicious twist?” He dropped his phone back in his pocket, smoothed down the lapels of his suit jacket, and nodded to his reflection before sweeping toward the door. “Come along, John. We’ve work to do.”  
\--

 

Lestrade sat at Mycroft’s feet in his study while minions and minor dignitaries bustled in and out. Mycroft often spent his days at his office in the city, for which he did not require Lestrade’s presence. Since Lord Sherlock had come to stay, however, Mycroft had been conducting more of his business—the business of the state—from home. Lestrade was an indispensable part of the image of a Lord in his manor that Mycroft worked to project: as essential as a hunting dog dozing in front of the fire would have been to a king in his castle.

So Lestrade spent hours kneeling at Mycroft’s feet, intentionally tuning out the carefully guarded words exchanged between his social betters. This morning, he passed the time by calling up his mental file on one of the cold cases he’d worked in his days at the Yard: a young man, one of London’s homeless, who’d been found beaten to death next to Regent’s Canal. There had been some question of his being involved in drugs trafficking. Lestrade tried to picture the file on the case, in order to recall the details: time of death, witness statements, leads. It was hopeless, of course, to expect his memory to provide anything close to accuracy, but it occupied his attention, at least.

The door clicked shut as Mycroft’s latest appointment departed: some important Scottish Lady and her attendant.

“Did you notice anything about her personal slave?”

Lestrade glanced up to see Mycroft looking down at him with a quirked eyebrow. “No. I’m sorry, sir.” In fact, he couldn’t have said whether the slave had been male or female, much less if he or she had displayed any telling reactions. He’d just been explaining to John the importance of such observations, and here he was, shirking. “My mind was elsewhere. I’ll pay more attention, sir.”

“There’s no harm done, Gregory. What were you thinking of?”

“Nothing,” he said immediately. Mycroft didn’t need to hear about his old obsessions.

“I see.” Mycroft’s brow creased minutely before he turned back to his desk. He pressed the button the intercom to indicate he was ready for the next meeting.

As three more petitioners came and went, Lestrade focused on observing their reactions. He did not allow his thoughts to stray toward his former life. But Mycroft did not address him again.

Shortly after Lord Ferguson had stalked out of the room with his request un-granted, Anthea darted in. She closed the door behind her.

“Sir,” she said. “We’ve had a report on the situation you’d asked about.”

“Ah, yes.” Mycroft stood immediately. “Please re-schedule my next appointment. Come along, Gregory.”

Lestrade followed his master out into the corridor and maintained his distance the proper two steps behind his master. Mycroft led them through the east wing and upstairs, toward the family residences. When they’d passed the uniformed guard who marked the entrance to the private section of the house—she gave Mycroft a deferential nod—Lestrade moved up to walk beside Mycroft, as they could do when out from under public scrutiny.

“There’s a project with which I’d like your assistance,” Mycroft said. “I’d go so far as to say it may be impossible to succeed in this without your help.”

“Sir?”

“I trust you’ll know what to do when the time comes. Ah, here we are.” Mycroft pushed through the door at the end of the third-floor hallway to enter the library: the family’s main library, not the smaller one Mycroft maintained for himself. This one had high domed ceilings that currently echoed with the sound of a familiar voice. Lestrade followed.

Inside, Lord Sherlock stood atop one of the enormous carved oak tables that were probably as old as the manor house itself. He held a book in one hand. As Lestrade watched, he flung it overhand like a cricketer to smash against the stone wall at the other end of the room. The book fluttered pitifully to the ground like a wounded bird.

“No good,” Sherlock said. “Something lighter. Pass me the Chaucer.” He reached down a hand to John, who stood next to the table, staggering under a pile of books that reached past his shoulder.

“John,” Mycroft said sharply. He hadn’t spoken loudly, but Lestrade had the idea that his tone would have cut through a mob in full cry.

John froze in the act of passing Sherlock the requested book.

“John, are you allowing my family’s collection of rare books to be flung against the wall?”

“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “I’m working.”

“Ah yes. Good morning, Sherlock.” His voice sharpened. “John. I asked you a question, slave.”

Lestrade missed John’s reaction, because he was busy staring at Mycroft. He’d never heard his master speak that way to anyone, slave or no.

“I…” John began. He glanced up at Sherlock for guidance.

Sherlock snatched the book from John’s still-outstretched hand and sent it spinning toward the far wall, where its spine broke with a pitiful crack.

“John,” Mycroft said, louder now. “That was a rare edition of The Canterbury Tales worth half again your contract. If you continue to facilitate the destruction of my property, there will be consequences.”

“I said piss off,” Sherlock snapped. He grabbed for another book, but John stepped backwards, out of his reach. “Come off it, John. That ponce has no power over you.”

“Yes, he does,” Lestrade breathed. As he’d watched Mycroft’s reactions to Sherlock, he’d put the puzzle together.

Mycroft shot him a quick look—the very beginning of an approving smile—and Sherlock frowned.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, “if you’ve had your solicitor insert some obscure clause into John’s contract—“

“Not at all,” Mycroft said mildly.

Sherlock reached for a book again.

“John, if you destroy even one more book, you’ll face twenty strokes with a paddle,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock turned on his heel and strode across the table to glare at Mycroft from the near edge. “What are you playing at?”

“As Lord of this district, I have the responsibility—nay, the duty—to punish any slave in my territory who violates laws, shirks his duties, or endangers his master. If you paid any attention at all to social conventions, you’d know these things.”

Lestrade wasn’t certain he’d ever seen Sherlock be lost for words for so long a moment. He knew for a fact he’d never seen Sherlock turn that particular shade of pink.

“Of course, if you object to my meting out the punishment personally,” Mycroft said, “I do employ a discipline squad at the office to deal with such cases.”

“I don’t have time for your petty manipulations, Mycroft. I’ve work to do.” Sherlock turned and stalked back across the table. “John, book.”

John glanced quickly at Lestrade, who could only shake his head. Being caught in a spat between the Lords Holmes was an unenviable position, but he could no more rescue John from it than he could remove his own collar.

“John. Here.” Sherlock pointed to the edge of the table. “Now.” John stepped up to the table, but kept a tight grip on his armful of books. Sherlock held out a hand and kept his eyes fixed on John.

Lestrade glanced over at Mycroft, but saw no hint of mercy in his expression, only unwavering interest.

“Book,” Sherlock said.

John’s hard swallow pushed his throat against his collar. Lestrade wondered if he’d begun to doubt his decision to accept Sherlock as his master. For John to tolerate the way Sherlock spoke to him, he must have prodigious reserves of patience. Or perhaps he understood something about Sherlock that Lestrade didn’t.

John pulled a book out of his stack and offered it up.

Sherlock smiled—a bright, maniacal grin—turned on his heel, and flung the book. When it impacted the wall, its spine popped and sent loose pages fluttering down in an unruly cloud.

“That’s it!” Sherlock cried. “That explains the blood pattern. Come on, John!” Sherlock leapt from the table and swept toward the door.

John dumped his armful of books in a nearby chair and tried to follow.

Mycroft stepped neatly in front of him, barring his way. “John, you’ll report to the work room after evening muster for your punishment.”

Jaw clenched and eyes fixed firmly in middle distance, John nodded his head.

“Excellent.” Mycroft stepped aside.

From the doorway, Sherlock fixed Mycroft’s back with a vicious glare until John made it out of the room. Sherlock slammed the door after them.

The last of the poor book’s pages drifted to the ground, and then silence took over the library.

“Well,” Lestrade said. He felt almost as if he’d been left alone with a stranger: compelled to say something to combat the silence. “If your goal was to make your brother angry, I’d say you’ve done it.”

“I’ve no wish to make Sherlock angry, though it seems any interaction we have infuriates him.” Mycroft turned to look at Lestrade. “You know I prefer to avoid unpleasant confrontations whenever possible.”

“Yes,” Lestrade said slowly. He privately thought that rushing in on Sherlock while he was working and ordering John around was a poor way to avoid confrontation.

“And something more.” Mycroft gazed steadily at him. “You don’t approve of the way he treats other slaves. Slaves in general, but more specifically, the ones under your care.”

Lestrade fixed his eyes on the rich red carpeting covering the library floor. Dangerous ground, this. He had always thought it best not to speak of Sherlock to Mycroft, and he had no intention of starting now, when confusion and a burgeoning anger might hijack his words. “It’s not for me to say.”

“Gregory.” Mycroft took Lestrade’s chin in his hand to tip his head up. “That’s twice today you’ve tried to make decisions for me about what I wish to hear.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Lestrade said.

“Back to sir again.” Mycroft frowned. “You’re angry with me. Is it that you didn’t like the way I spoke to Sherlock? You’ve always had a soft spot for him.”

“No.” Lestrade shook his head. “I understand. It’s like dealing with a child.”

“Quite.” Mycroft let go of Lestrade’s chin to stroke his thumb down the line of his jaw. “What, then?”

Lestrade watched Mycroft carefully, trying to gauge if he were being deliberately obtuse. But Mycroft, when he so desired, could keep his intentions carefully hidden, so Lestrade knew nothing for sure. He ventured, slowly. “John.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, with a note on encouragement. When Lestrade didn’t elaborate, he prompted, “You think I was harsh with him.”

“Well.” Lestrade fought the urge to prevaricate. Mycroft had asked for honestly. “Yes.”

“Have I ever spoken to you that way?”

“No,” Lestrade said, but that wasn’t the point. He didn’t like the idea that the man he’d willingly chosen to serve could harbour that kind of cruelty. “He’s doing the best he knows how.”

“And occasionally even better than that,” Mycroft said agreeably. “I’ve no complaint against his performance.”

“Then why-- ?” Lestrade stopped himself. It wasn’t his place to question his master, regardless of the relationship Lestrade imagined they enjoyed. Mycroft would always be, first and foremost, a Lord. Instead, he offered a warning he hoped Mycroft would be wise enough to heed. “He’ll not be pushed indefinitely, that kind.”

The very beginning of a smile formed on Mycroft’s lips. “Let us hope not.”  
\--


	2. Chapter 2

“It’s not so much to ask, is it?” Mrs. Hudson turned pleading eyes on Sherlock. “Some biscuits and a hot cup of tea once in a while.”

John sipped from his cup while keeping his feet braced against the kitchen floor should he need to follow one of Sherlock’s dramatic sweeps from the room. When no exit seemed forthcoming, John cautiously helped himself to another biscuit from the plate in the centre of the table.

Mrs. Hudson continued. “Doesn’t need to be every day, mind. Sometimes life interferes, I can tell you. But what good is all the glory of the Empire if a body can’t enjoy a nice cuppa when the mood strikes?”

“Yes, quite.” Sherlock took a sip of his own tea. To John’s surprise, he appeared quite relaxed. Sherlock had been tense and irritable since the incident in the library, but that all seemed to have vanished now. At least he was presenting a placid exterior as Mrs. Hudson continued to expound at length on the many benefits of tea time.

John risked letting his attention stray. Many other household slaves—some John recognized from the personal slaves’ muster, some he’d never seen—were clustered around the massive kitchen, taking advantage a brief break or a few stolen minutes to socialize. Even some of the guests’ slaves were enjoying a respite; John recognized the personal slave of the Chinese Ambassador, and quickly looked away, not wanting to be caught staring.

John wondered if the household slaves congregated here every afternoon. His first two weeks in the house, when he’d had nothing but idle hours, he hadn’t felt up to seeking the company of other slaves, unsure as he’d been of his place in the household and his reception by his fellows. Here now, he was still an outsider. Sherlock was the only master present, and though he, John and Mrs. Hudson sat at a large table with a lovely window overlooking the garden and a comically large platter of home-made biscuits, everyone in the room gave them a wide berth.

“You see, it doesn’t kill you to take a little break now and again, dear,” Mrs. Hudson was saying. “And it’s better for Doctor Watson, isn’t it?”

John smiled into his tea. “Not a doctor anymore, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Pish. You can hardly stop being one. Lestrade told me you helped our Molly. And the herbal soothers you recommended have done wonders.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John, which Mrs. Hudson didn’t fail to notice. She rushed on. “Anyhow, can’t rip years of schooling out of your head, can they? Once a doctor always a doctor. Like being a soldier. Oh, speaking of which.” She leaned in over her tea, and motioned John in conspiratorially. “Did you hear we have some military men coming?”

“Is that so?” He vaguely remembered Lestrade mentioning something about military guests, but the details escaped him.

“I heard Lestrade say there was a business matter Lord Mycroft wanted to discuss, so they’re coming a day early. As if running a household isn’t already difficult enough, now all these people coming in from town to stay, figuring out where to room them all, and half a dozen not even bringing their own slaves! Poor Lestrade’s been pulling his hair out.”

A sudden, unpleasant thought occurred to John. “Do you know what kind of military?” he asked.

“What, dear?”

“Navy, Air Force?” he asked, hoping for an affirmative. “Army?”

“I don’t remember hearing. You may meet them tomorrow. If you—“

“John, come along.” Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist. John barely managed to put down the cup in his other hand before Sherlock tugged him out of the kitchen.

“Done with tea, then, are we, sir?”

“Come along.” Slowing not a jot, Sherlock led them through a series of back stairways and narrow hallways until they arrived at an unfamiliar door. It looked plain enough, but a security panel mounted on the wall proclaimed it led to something valuable.

“Where are we?”

“Guest slave quarter.”

“What?” John lowered his voice. “Why?”

Sherlock didn’t deign to answer. He tugged John’s hand over to the security panel and pressed his thumb against the scanner.

“Watson, John,” the panel chirped. “Access granted.”

“Brilliant.” Sherlock slipped through the door and tugged John along.

“Why are we here?”

Sherlock bent toward the floor, examining something only he could see as they passed by several locked doors. Sherlock stopped abruptly, dropped John’s hand, and pressed his ear to a door indistinguishable from the others. He frowned at the security panel on the wall. He plucked a small tool of some kind of his pocket, then crouched before the panel. The little metal thing—a lock pick of some kind?—was shoved and jimmied into various parts of the door and doorframe. It seemed to take an interminably long time, with John always looking over his shoulder at the exposed corridor behind them. At last, the door popped open with a click.

Sherlock ducked through immediately. John could only follow. He stepped into the narrow room, lit only by the grey afternoon light filtering in from the high window, and closed the door gently behind him. Sherlock was already opening the drawers and poking at their contents.

“Sorry, whose room is this?” John asked.

“Soo Lin Yao.”

“Who is—?“

“The personal slave of the Chinese ambassador.”

“Sherlock,” John let his head drop back against the door. “I just used my access privileges to get in here. If she notices someone’s been in her room, don’t you think it’ll be obvious who’s to blame?”

“Of course it would be obvious,” Sherlock said with a snap in his voice that spoke of impatience. “The worst that could happen to you is a slap on the wrist.”

“What, you mean like twenty strokes with a paddle?”

“Mm.” Sherlock finished pawing through the contents of the top drawer, shut it, and opened the next one.

“That doesn’t bother you?” John asked.

“He won’t do it,” Sherlock said without looking up. “My brother. He won’t dare.”

“Right,” John said glumly. He had no notion that Mycroft’s threats were idle, but he knew had had no hope of changing Sherlock’s mind. “Anyway, we shouldn’t be here. She’s right downstairs.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock said. He pulled open the wardrobe and began running his fingers down the joins in the wood. “She snuck out the kitchen door to the garden when she thought no one was looking.”

“So we’re breaking into her room because...?”

“There’s evidence here that relates to the identity of the person who’s been paying midnight visits to the ambassador’s daughter. It has something to do with the son’s murder as well.”

“How do you know? Maybe it doesn’t all fit together so easily.”

“I’m not prone to idle speculation, John. The son wasn’t killed until the Ambassador overstayed his visit here by five days. Someone’s getting impatient. I’ve already searched the Ambassador’s room, and that of his daughter—“

“What? When?”

“I don’t account to you for every moment of my time, John. Now, what I discovered upon—“ Sherlock suddenly slapped his hand over John’s mouth.

John froze and immediately heard the soft pad of footsteps approaching. Sherlock grabbed John by the wrist and pointed at the narrow bed. When John hesitated, Sherlock shoved him to the floor and began unceremoniously pushing John under the bed while keeping a hand clapped to his mouth. Sherlock crowded in beside him, and had just tucked his inconveniently long legs over John’s when the door clicked open. Soo Lin had returned.

John tried to keep his breathing even and quiet, but it was difficult with a bony elbow jabbing into his side and a cold hand clamped across his mouth. Sherlock had his head pressed to the floor next to John’s chest, eyes closed. John could see a stretch of floor beyond Sherlock’s shoulder, and he watched it carefully for any clue that they’d been discovered.

A pair of dainty blue slippers splashed with mud came into view. They moved away from the bed, and John could hear some heavy objects being moved around. The slippers turned towards the bed, and John held his breath. If she thought to look around, surely she’d notice the belongings Sherlock’s search had disturbed. The bed creaked as she sat down, and the mattress sank, pressing against Sherlock’s back. Papers rustled—the pages of a book being turned? Then the book slammed shut.

Soo Lin stood, returned the book to the shelf, and dashed out of the room. The door clicked shut behind her.

Sherlock started to move, but John threw an arm over his waist and whispered, “Wait.”

Nothing happened. The room remained utterly silent but for John’s pulse hammering in his ears.

“Unhand me,” Sherlock growled.

Then the door was flung open again. Soo Lin dashed into the room, kicked off her dirty slippers, grabbed a clean pair from the wardrobe, and dashed out again.

“Now I’ll unhand you,” John muttered. He released his grip on Sherlock, but the man didn’t move.

Wedged in as they were under the bed, Sherlock’s face was startlingly close to John’s. “How did you know?” he demanded.

“Her slippers were muddy. She couldn’t go to dinner like that.”

“Mud. Couldn’t have heard that, though I should have guessed. Well.” He looked away in order to begin the process of untangling his legs from John’s. “It’s... good that you noticed. I’d hoped my skills might start to rub off on you at some point.”

“Thanks,” John muttered.

Sherlock squirmed out from under the bed. By the time John was able to unfold himself and climb to his feet, Sherlock was already searching the bookshelf. He pulled out a book whose spine hadn’t been lined up with the rest, and read the title. “ _Freedom through Obedience: a Guide to Slave Life in the Imperial World._ A real page turner.”

“And required reading,” John put in. “There’s been a copy every place I’ve been since I became a slave.”

“Book, book.” Sherlock flipped open the guide and paged through it. “Why would she need the book?”

“Maybe she wanted to look up a point of etiquette?” John sat down on the bed so he could stretch out his leg, which had begun to protest its ill treatment. “I hear Lord Mycroft’s a stickler for etiquette.”

“No, no that’s not it. But she’s lead us to the next clue.” Sherlock slammed the book closed and returned it to its place.

“She has?”

“Let’s be off, John.” Sherlock lunged toward the door.

“Off where?”

“Outside. The mud. The garden.” Sherlock flung open the door, and turned back with a manic grin. “Don’t you see, John? The game is on!”

He swept out the door, dramatically of course. John followed.  
\--

Right before dinner, a shadow appeared in the doorway of Lestrade’s quarters. He’d left the door propped open, distantly hoping that John might come by for a talk, but when he looked up from his laptop, it was Anthea who stood blocking the light from the hallway. She stood there for half a minute with her fingers flying over the keys of her phone.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Not a thing.” She continued to type. “Just wanted to see that you’d be joining the master this evening.”

Lestrade turned back to his desk. “He sent you to ask that?”

“Didn’t send me. Came on my own. He’s been tense all day. What’d you do?”

“Nothing!” Lestrade protested.

She rolled her eyes without looking up.

“Well, there was a bit of a row with Lord Sherlock this morning.”

She glanced up from her texting. “Ah.”

“Ah what?” Unease stirred in Lestrade as she continued to look at him with her fingers stilled over her phone.

“You’re coming tonight, after muster?”

Lestrade skipped past asking her what she knew about Mycroft’s work room appointment (the answer would be: everything) and went right to, “I’d rather not. John Watson’s a decent man, and I’ve already seen him punished once this month, thanks much.”

“When have you ever known Lord Mycroft to personally punish a slave?”

Lestrade thought about it. The few times when personal slaves in his charge had required punishment, he’d delivered it himself. Likewise, he’d heard of other slaves in the household receiving punishment, but only from the head slaves in their departments. “Never, in all the time I’ve been here.”

“And that didn’t tell you something? Honestly, Greg, I thought bed slaves were supposed to be experts in decoding human behaviour.”

“I’m not a bed slave,” he said automatically.

“ _Head_ bed slave, then,” Anthea said with a small smile. She looked at him expectantly—she must have been taking lessons from Mycroft in enigmatic staring—until Lestrade gave up and tried to reason through his master’s actions.

“Has something to do with taking the piss out of Sherlock, that’s certain.”

“Uh huh. And?”

“And things are seldom what they seem in this house.”

Anthea nodded. “Anyway, he’d like to have you with him, but he won’t ask.”

“Come on, Anthea. He’s not a shy man.”

“Hm.” She looked at her phone again, and began to type. “Neither are you. You made your discomfort quite clear this morning.”

“Did I?” Lestrade frowned.

“Eight o’clock. His work room.” She stepped out into the hallway, leaving Lestrade alone.  
\--

 

By the time the sun set, John was profoundly grateful he’d insisted on grabbing his coat before they left the house. The rain had stopped, but the muddy ground squelched under John’s shoes, and the chill air whistled through the trees unceasingly. Sherlock seemed impervious to both the wind and the mud. Despite all their tromping around the grounds, Sherlock’s dress slacks and coat remained unstained.

“This might go faster if you told me what we were looking for,” John said.

“I’ll know it when I see it.” Sherlock paused to inspect a bit of shrubbery.

“Right.” John leaned his forehead against the damp bark of the nearest tree. Of course he couldn’t possibly be of any use to a man as brilliant as Sherlock. He was just a pet, brought along for his ability to wag his tail at his master’s voice. “Can we at least consider going in for dinner at some point? I’m knackered, and you’ve hardly eaten anything since yesterday. Biscuits aren’t a proper meal.”

When he received no answer, he straightened up and looked around the clearing for Sherlock. He was no longer crouching by a holly bush, examining its leaves. In fact, he was nowhere within John’s line of sight.

“Sherlock!” he called. The wind rattled through dead leaves, but no other answer was forthcoming.

“Wonderful,” he grunted. He moved to the centre of the clearing and turned in a slow circle. Even in the gathering darkness, he ought to be able to catch a glimpse of Sherlock through the tangle of bushes and mostly-naked trees. He saw nothing. He’d been left behind.

John jammed his hands in his pockets as he tried to bank his rising temper. It had seemed earlier today that Sherlock had thought of him as something more than a convenient accessory, but apparently that regard had been short lived. He set his jaw and swallowed past the lump of disappointment. Sherlock was the master, and he the slave; he couldn’t expect Sherlock to accommodate him any more than he would make concessions for his coat or his magnifying glass.

John fixed his gaze on a large tree in the distance and began to walk. Sherlock had long since led them past the walled gardens into a heavily wooded, almost wild part of the grounds where John had never been. The rising moon provided a bit of light whenever the clouds blew away from it, but John longed for a torch. Perhaps he needed to assemble a supply kit to have on hand whenever he was forced to run off with Sherlock. He kept his eyes fixed on his landmark tree. If he walked in a straight line, he was sure to happen upon some mark of civilization eventually.

His foot caught against a protruding root, wrenching his bad leg. He stumbled a few steps and went down on his right knee in a patch of muddy leaves. “Brilliant.” He wiped his dirty hands on his new jeans, which were liberally splashed with mud already. He stayed down for a moment as a clench of pain echoed through his thigh. He’d allow himself a minute, he decided, just one minute to feel sorry for himself. When the moon peeked out, he’d go.

John raised his eyes to the sky, watching wispy clouds race across the face of the moon. When a clear patch at last appeared, he pushed himself back up to standing.

That’s when he noticed the painting.

On the sheer side of a large boulder, off to the left of the line he’d been following, a series of jagged lines had been marked with yellow spray paint. He stared at the rock’s surface for several seconds, but couldn’t identify anything as words, or even numbers.

He scanned the forest again. “Sherlock!” he called. “This is probably the kind of thing you’d like to see!” No reply came. He returned to staring at the mysterious marks. No good trying to commit them to memory; they were too random, and there were too many of them. If he had a pen and paper, he could copy them down. Add that to the list for the supply kit. He patted his pockets, knowing he was unlikely to have either item, and encountered a bulge in the inside pocket of his jacket.

John shoved his hand inside and came out with Sherlock’s cell phone. John remembered being handed it during lunch, along with a gruffly delivered order to take dictation for a series of texts. He’d never handed it back.

“As one accessory to another,” John muttered, “I’m glad you’re here.” He brought up the photo application, waited until the clouds cleared once more, and hoped for the best as he snapped a shot.

John pocketed the phone and squinted through the darkness. He could barely make out the tree he’d chosen as a landmark. At least, that was probably the right tree. Before he’d gone ten feet, he heard two gunshots ring out through the trees.

“Sherlock!” Without his conscious permission, John’s feet carried him in the direction from which the shots had come. When another shot pierced the night, he went from a controlled jog to an all-out sprint. He ignored the branches that snagged at his clothes and the tree roots that sent him stumbling. “Sherlock!” he called again.

A third shot rang out, followed by the unmistakable sound of Sherlock’s shouts. John pushed himself to run faster, though his lungs were burning with the cold air, following the sound of Sherlock’s voice. He shoved his way through a thicket to emerge on the shores of a small lake. Not ten feet away, he saw Sherlock pointing a gun-- _John’s_ gun—and followed his line of sight to a dark figure weaving through the trees at the far end of the lake.

A flash of moonlight on metal caught John’s eye, off toward the left. John caught sight of a second silhouette moving through the trees. The glint had come from the rifle the man was now raising to his shoulder.

“Sherlock!” John launched himself across the distance between them. In every step he saw the starry desert sky, felt the weight of body armour, heard the screams of injured comrades: he was on the battlefield again. He reached out a hand to grab Sherlock’s wrist and held it has he tackled him, keeping the gun pointed safely away. The moment they impacted the ground, a bullet shattered a tree branch behind them, sending down a shower of splinters. Another two shots rang out, and John curled himself over his patient—no, not his patient, his master—to protect him.

Sherlock struggled beneath John. “Stay down!” John shouted. He twisted the gun out of Sherlock’s grip, rolled to the side, and came up with his back against a large pine. He planted a foot firmly on Sherlock’s shoulder to keep him where he was. With gun raised, he scanned the shores of the lake. No movement.

“They’ve got away,” Sherlock growled.

John didn’t lower his guard. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“Fine. Let me up.”

“In a minute. Tell me if you’re injured.”

“I am fine, John. They’re long gone.”

“Fine.” John released Sherlock, pushed himself to standing, and took a few steps towards the lake, presenting a nice, juicy target. When nothing happened, he said, “You’re probably right.”

“Of course I’m right.” Sherlock stood and began brushing himself off.

John turned around to give Sherlock a look over—he could easily be lying about being uninjured, that’d be just like him—and was met with Sherlock staring steadily at him with narrowed eyes. “What?”

“Why did you do that?” Sherlock asked.

“I had to get you clear.” John gave an irritated sigh. “Sorry, your Lordship. I’ll try to tackle you more respectfully next time.”

“No, why did you help me at all?” He looked puzzled, as if John were some piece of evidence that didn’t agree with the facts. “You hate me.”

“Are you mad?” John laughed. “Let you get shot? Your brother wouldn’t much appreciate that.”

“Ah, of course.” Sherlock straightened his scarf, and the considering look evaporated. “Fear of punishment.”

“Right,” John said. He restored the gun’s safety and shoved it into his pocket. Then he replayed what Sherlock had said. “No wrong, actually. I don’t hate you, Sherlock.” In fact, when John had seen a gun pointed at Sherlock, he’d experienced a sharp stab of terror far in excess of anything he’d felt on the battlefield in Afghanistan. Even now, thinking of Sherlock lying bloody and vacant on the cold ground sent a sick dread rising in his chest.

“Oh really.” Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out across the lake.

“Just...” John said. “Don’t race off after armed men without me. And let me carry the gun.” He supposed there was no point in asking how and when Sherlock had got the gun from John’s room. Instead, he said, “I leave you alone for ten minutes and you’re getting shot at?”

“He shot first,” Sherlock sniffed. “And they’re probably leading Mycroft’s so-called security forces on a merry chase as we speak, thanks to you. Anyway, I don’t suppose you have much to show for your ten minutes. Probably busy stumbling around in the dark.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” John held up Sherlock’s phone.  
\--

 

Lestrade usually enjoyed leading evening muster. The meeting provided more than a chance to issue orders; it allowed him to exercise what little authority he possessed to make life tolerable for the slaves in his charge. He’d always excelled at making order out of chaos. In the life of a slave, order meant security, and sometimes even safety. He provided that for his charges, when he could. They didn’t always make it easy.

“He’s contaminating the whole household,” said Anderson.

“It’s dangerous, is what it is.” Sally paced furiously from one end of the lounge to the other, arms crossed over her chest. Lestrade recognized the look of a woman gearing up for a proper row.

“It’s not his fault he’s not yet got proper training,” Molly piped up. “Lord Sherlock will teach him as he sees fit.”

“Oh yes, Lord Sherlock’s a likely model to be teaching appropriate protocol,” Anderson sneered.

“He’s liable to offend some ambassador, or one of the Empress’s lackeys, and he won’t be the only one to pay the price.”

“Careful, Sally,” Lestrade said. “We’ll not have talk against the Empress.”

“She’s right about Watson,” Jim piped up from the other side of the room. “He’s not exactly up to Lord Mycroft’s standards.”

From the neighbouring seat, Molly gave him a horrified look. “Through no fault of his own!” she insisted.

“No matter who’s to blame,” Sally said, “we’re the ones left picking up the slack when he can’t—“

“That’s _enough_ ,” Lestrade broke in. “It’s not our place to judge a slave’s performance: not John Watson’s, and not anyone here. That’s the masters’ lookout, and they’ll provide correction when it’s warranted."

“You needn’t worry on that account.”

Lestrade turned quickly to see John standing just inside the door to the common room, his hands clenched at his sides. His hair was dishevelled and damp, and his trousers were liberally splashed with drying mud. The noise of the argument had covered his entrance. He must be able to move quite stealthily, Lestrade reflected, for a wounded war veteran.

John’s gaze swept the room, and he said, rather coolly, “Our betters are taking all the appropriate measures to correct my wayward behaviour, so you needn’t worry about my besmirching you house’s good name.” He walked across the room in silence—Lestrade noticed the tiniest bit of a limp—and sat himself in the same armchair he usually occupied.

“Yes,” said Lestrade. “Let’s move on, shall we?” Throughout the uncomfortable meeting, Lestrade found his eyes straying toward John, trying to read his expression. John, for his part, stared straight ahead, ignoring both Anderson’s glares and Molly’s fretful hand-petting.

Lestrade double-checked his notes as the meeting wrapped up. It wouldn’t do to let his personal distractions interfere with the smooth running of the household, especially with the banquet fast approaching. At last, he felt sure he’d covered all the necessary points. “You all have your assignments. Questions?”

Sally raised an eyebrow in John’s direction, but said nothing.

“Fine, then. You’re all dismissed. John, stay a minute, please.”

The others filed out rather hastily. Sally mouthed, “Thank you,” as she passed.

John sat where he was, staring fixedly at the opposite wall. “Are you planning to correct my behaviour as well?”

Lestrade threw himself down on the couch beside John. Up close, he could see that underneath the mud, John was sporting jeans and a jumper: definitely not the dress code of the house. He decided now was not the time to ask. Instead, he said, “Looks like you had an eventful day with Lord Sherlock.”

“Yes. His duties do seem to require a fair amount of legwork. If you can call them duties.”

“Oh, Sherlock does more good for the Empire than he’d like to admit.” Though Lestrade hadn’t seen Sherlock work firsthand for years, he still remembered the heady rush of watching the man unravel a tangled knot of clues. “Has he been showing off for you? Deducing your life story?”

“Something like that. You’ve seen him in action?”

“Many times. If you think he’s a terror here on the estate, you should see him running wild on the streets of London.” Lestrade chuckled, remember breathless chases: alleys, sewers, rooftops.

“Lord Mycroft keeps a residence in London?”

“Yes, but this was before I— “ Lestrade stumbled to a stop, not only because he didn’t want to bring up all that, but also because he honestly didn’t know what words to say.

John finished the thought for him. “Before you were a slave. You knew Lord Sherlock when you were a free man, didn’t you. Is that why you don’t tell stories about him?”

“I thought we decided you’d leave this alone.”

“Hm,” John said. He didn’t look contrite.

“We should get moving if we’re going to make it to your appointment.” Lestrade stood up. “Come on.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.” John levered himself out of the chair, grimacing a bit, and headed for the door.

“Do you know where the work room is?”

John stopped walking. He turned around and pressed his lips into a tight line. “...No.” When Lestrade stayed where he was and just rocked back and forth on his heels, John’s scowl broke into a rueful smile. “Alright, I need a guide.”

“Alright then. We may want to get you a change of clothes first. Mycroft abhors untidiness.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t belong to Mycroft, then.”

Lestrade laughed. It felt good to so do. “You’ve been hanging around Sherlock too long.”

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

Lestrade followed John out of the common room and down the corridor toward the slaves’ quarters.

They walked in companionable silence for a while, until John asked, “Am I really putting them in danger with my... ignorance?”

Lestrade considered how best to answer, then decided the truth was best. “No and yes. Not as much as you’d think to hear Sally tell it. But her heart’s in the right place. She cares about maintaining a certain level of dignity.”

“Dignity,” John laughed.

Lestrade dropped his eyes to the floor. “Believe it or not, it’s an honour to be a personal slave, John. It means something to some of us, even if it’s not what we would have chosen.”

“Right.” John paused in front of his door. “Sorry.” He scanned his thumb to open the lock and pushed the door open.

Lestrade followed him into the tiny room, which was far from the haven of order Lestrade had expected from a former soldier. “Did your cupboard have an accident?”

“Oh, that.” John picked up a pair of trousers and a shirt and tossed them on the bed. “Lord Sherlock wanted to gather some data about slave wardrobes. Though I got some new jumpers out of the deal, so maybe I shouldn’t complain.”

“He came to your room?”

“Yes.”

“He should leave you alone here,” Lestrade said. He had trouble picturing Sherlock inside John’s tiny room. He seemed so large and vibrant as to be barely contained by even the largest and most grandly decorated rooms in the house, let alone a cell like this. “A slave needs a little corner to call his own, at least. It’s only humane.”

“Yes, ours is a very humane slavery.” John’s frown had returned.

“It’s not right, John, but we’re luckier than some,” Lestrade said quietly.

John pulled off his jumper and shirt as one, and Lestrade’s eye couldn't help but assess that the marks from the riding crop had healed nicely. He thought about Sherlock’s mercurial nature, his frequent bouts of casual cruelty, and wondered whether John was actually so lucky. “I can ask Mycroft to say something to Lord Sherlock. About respecting— ”

“No. No, that’s quite all right,” John said quickly as he pulled some fresh clothes from a pile on the floor. “Lord Mycroft would probably have me punished for allowing Sherlock to bully his way into my room. No, thank you.”

Lestrade turned his back to give John some privacy. “John, this punishment...”

“What of it?” John prompted.

Lestrade tired to imagine what he’d want to know were he in John’s place—trapped in a power struggle between two Holmeses—and decided that practical advice was best. “The paddle has a flat impact rather than cutting like a whip or a crop, so the pain tends to have a cumulative effect. Depending on how he secures you, it may be possible to rock forward with the blow and disperse some of the force. If he makes you count, don’t lose track. Try counting on your fingers, that can help. Mycroft hates shamming, so don’t scream until you must.” He took a quick breath. “What else do you want to know?”

“How do you-- ?” John had stopped moving, and Lestrade could feel eyes on his back. “Why am I being punished?”

“Mycroft never does anything without a reason.” Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest. “Usually several reasons.”

“One would do.”

“You’re a smart man, John. Surely you can think of at least one.”

“Because Lord Mycroft is a sadist?”

“He’s not a sadist,” Lestrade said. More heat crept into those words than he’d intended. He hadn’t meant for John to come to the wrong conclusion as to how Lestrade knew so much about enduring punishment, but there was nothing for it now. He didn’t need to justify his past to John.

“Fine,” John said slowly.

Lestrade stared at the floor. He wasn’t sure why it mattered so much to him that John understand their masters, but something in him felt ill when he thought John might think worse of either of the Holmes Lords because of something he said. He offered, “Lord Sherlock isn’t a sadist either, for that matter.”

“You sound quite certain. I seem to remember receiving a going over with a riding crop six minutes after making his acquaintance.”

Lestrade turned around to see John buttoning up a clean pair of trousers. “You think he’s a sadist?” Lestrade asked. If John was truly unhappy, Lestrade would rather know it now, before he got his hopes up.

“I think,” John said, “That he understands very well how people can be hurt. And that includes himself.” John shoved his feet into his shoes, then paused. “Should I even be bothering with this? Will I be made to take my clothes off?”

“Probably,” Lestrade said. “I assume you won’t want to walk through the halls starkers.”

“You sure _you’re_ not a sadist?” John grumbled.

“Come on.” Lestrade clapped him on the back. “You don’t want to be late for your punishment.”  
\--


	3. Sherlock Fic: I Go to Prepare a Place for You (3/3)

Lestrade kept his eyes firmly on the leather straps as he fastened the last restraint around John’s left ankle. He stood and took stock of Mycroft’s position by the rack of tools and implements before leaning in toward John’s ear and speaking softly, “Remember what I said.”

John didn’t respond, but continued to stare straight ahead past the broad wooden X to which his limbs were strapped, to the door beyond. Lestrade stepped back and took up a position by the far wall, where he had a clear view of John’s bare body, but wouldn’t have to see his face.

Mycroft hefted a long, elegant paddle about the size of a cricket bat but thinner. His eyes skipped past Lestrade—observing him, but not inviting comment—and landed on John.

“Can you remind us, Dr. Watson, why you’ve been sentenced to this punishment?”

“You’re inexplicably fond of Chaucer.”

Mycroft struck fast, like a biting snake, swinging his arm out and landing the paddle directly across the thickest part of John’s arse.

John hadn’t seen the blow coming. To his credit, he tensed at the hit, but did not cry out.

“That’s not part of your punishment, John, just a reminder of how you should speak to me. Now. What is your sin?”

“I’m sure you could articulate it better than I, sir.”

“I’m sure I could. However, speaking it would teach me nothing. Gregory, perhaps you can assist him. You witnessed the transgression.” Mycroft turned to face Lestrade. John craned his neck in his restraints as well.

Nothing in Mycroft’s expression revealed his intentions. So, Lestrade was to try his hand at mind-reading then. Perfect. He walked up to John, around the front of the saltire cross, and put Mycroft’s sharp eyes firmly out of his mind. “You put your master in danger, John. That’s what he objects to.”

“Put him in danger? He was throwing books at a bloody wall! The wall can’t fight back.”

“But My—Lord Mycroft can. Lord Sherlock was deliberately provoking him.”

Mycroft stepped in close behind John and tucked a hand against the jut of his hip. Lestrade’s eyes snapped to that point of contact and stayed there. Mycroft leaned in close to John’s ear, just as Lestrade had done a moment before. “If he had spoken to another Lord that way, he would be facing a much worse punishment.”

“He isn’t facing any punishment, sir.”

“Isn’t he?” Mycroft asked mildly. “John, I worry about my brother. Constantly.”

“How very trying for you, sir.”

Lestrade watched Mycroft’s hand clench tightly against John’s hip. “Careful,” Mycroft admonished softly. “You could help me, you know. Bring me information about him: who he speaks to, what he observes. I have people watching him, of course, but I imagine you’d be able to supply more...intimate details.”

“Not interested.”

“Did you say no to me, slave?”

Lestrade kept his eyes focused on Mycroft’s hand wrapped around John’s hip. He didn’t want to see Mycroft’s face; hearing him speak like that to a fellow slave was surreal enough. Lestrade took two slow steps back. John noticed his move and looked up. When their eyes met, John saw something in Lestrade’s expression that made him frown.

“I asked you if you were certain of your choice before I allowed Sherlock to purchase your contract. Did you think he would be able to protect you?”

“It’s not his responsibility to protect me. It’s my...” John wet his lips with his tongue, then pressed them together in a grim line.

“It’s what, John?” Mycroft prompted.

“Those arrangements are between me and my master.”

“Hm. You’re very loyal very quickly. But John.” Mycroft leaned in closer, pressing his cheek to John’s. “You’d do well to remember that there are other brilliant minds in the Empire aside from Sherlock.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for those, sir.”

Mycroft backed away, releasing John from his grip, and Lestrade thought he saw Mycroft’s mouth turn up at the corners.

“Twenty strokes, John. You’ll keep count, yes?”

At the far end of the room, the door rattled, then swung open. All three men looked to the door.

Lord Sherlock slid a set of lock picks into the pocket of his finely tailored gray jacket. He strode into the room and pushed the door closed behind him. “Mycroft.”

Lestrade moved out of the way, stationing himself beside the wall, so as not to be noticed.

“Come to witness your slave’s disgrace, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock prowled around John’s bound form, looking him over with almost clinical attention. “He doesn’t seem very disgraced. John, has he been mercilessly talking at you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“See there, Mycroft. There’s not much to witness.” Sherlock brought his inspection to a halt, standing mere inches from his brother.

“Not yet. We’ve not begun carrying out his punishment.” Mycroft lifted the paddle.

Sherlock’s eyes darted to John, where one reddened stripe marked Mycroft’s first blow, then back to Mycroft. “You’ve touched him.”

Lestrade tensed, poised to step in before he realized there was nothing he could do; his social betters wouldn’t take kindly at all to his interference.

“Meting out punishment is part of my duty,” Mycroft said. He twirled the paddle against the ground, an echo of a habitual gesture with his umbrella. “I don’t suppose you’d want to... Oh, likely you’re not interested.”

“Your games are childishly transparent, Mycroft.” Sherlock stayed where he was, unsettlingly close to Mycroft. “If you have something to ask me, do so.”

“It sounds as if you might be interested in administering John’s punishment yourself.”

“And if I were?”

“I’m not sure. Wouldn’t you be predisposed to be too lenient? He is your own property.” Mycroft moved to take a step toward John, but Sherlock blocked his way.

“I’m perfectly capable of administering discipline fairly.”

“You don’t have a winning track record on that front.”

“After we’ve finished, you may judge whether or not my methods meet your standards.”

“If they do not?”

“Then you may administer the same sentence to my person.”

Mycroft’s expression did not change appreciably, but Lestrade noted the slight straightening of his spine that meant he was very surprised indeed. Mycroft offered the paddle up, sitting flat against his palm like a ceremonial sword.

Sherlock grabbed it by the handle and hefted its weight. “John, I trust that my brother has already dispensed with the boring part of the punishment, enumerating your sins.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock traced a hand down John’s spine, chasing a rivulet of sweat. “John.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were you polite to Mycroft when he questioned you?” When John didn’t immediately answer, Sherlock turned to Lestrade. “What would you say, Lestrade? Did he live up to the household’s standards of conduct?”

Lestrade shook his head slowly.

“Gregory,” Mycroft admonished. “We can’t hear you.”

“Not exactly, sir.”

“No, I thought not,” Sherlock said. “I’ve come to expect as much from John.” Sherlock dragged his hand down John’s chest and loosely cupped his cock. “Your behaviour is far from proper, wouldn’t you say, John?” Sherlock’s voice had dropped to an indecent register, almost a purr, and his hand continued to move on John, out of Lestrade’s field of vision. “Answer me.”

“Yes, sir,” John breathed. In mere seconds Sherlock had managed to do what Mycroft hadn’t: strip away the doctor’s careful composure.

“Good boy. Count for me.”

Sherlock swung gracefully, sending the paddle slamming against John’s arse as if it belonged there. When he drew back, Lestrade could plainly see the reddened outline the blow had left behind. Sherlock touched the very tips of his fingers to John’s skin. Lestrade recognized the look of dangerous fascination in his eyes: the desire to experiment in a new medium. He swung again.

John let out a gentle puff of breath as the paddle struck. Though Lestrade couldn’t see John’s face, he felt certain John wasn’t in distress. For one thing, he’d stopped pulling against the restraints as he had been when Mycroft questioned him. Now John seemed almost relaxed. His voice as he counted each stroke rang out strong and even. Sherlock, on the other hand, shone with a kind of fierce joy. Each blow rose and fell so gracefully that the paddle seemed an extension of his arm.

The two of them--master and slave--seemed to form one harmonious organism, like a mad machine that both dispensed and accepted punishment. Lestrade found himself mesmerized by the way they moved.

“Twenty,” John called out.

Lestrade dragged his eyes away from the pair and looked to his master. Mycroft was watching Lestrade with the blindingly neutral expression he wore when waiting for an important answer. He stood perfectly still, as if he’d been watching Lestrade for some time.

Discomfited, Lestrade looked away.

Sherlock reached around John with the paddle and used it to turn John’s face toward him. Sherlock kissed him once, firmly on the mouth. Then he stepped back and gestured grandly toward John with the paddle. “Satisfied?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft prowled over to the cross and dragged a hand down John’s flank past the overlapping rows of reddening marks. Even from a distance, Lestrade could tell Sherlock hadn’t held back.

“I am, for the time being.” He traced a finger around the edge of John’s collar. “John, you’d do well to remember the whole of this lesson.”

“I’m sure he’ll remember the relevant parts,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft swept past Lestrade and out the door. As soon as he was gone, Sherlock stepped in close to John and began to whisper in his ear. He gripped John’s shoulder, the injured one. Only the soft, indistinct rumble of Sherlock’s voice reached Lestrade, but by the way John writhed in his bonds and groaned, he could imagine the words.

Lestrade quickly followed his master out of the workroom and found himself shutting the door quietly so as not to disturb them.

Mycroft stood halfway down the corridor, hands clasped behind his back, eyes focused on the window that looked out over the darkened gardens. He seemed so buoyant as to practically bounce on the balls of his feet. Lestrade approached him, but came to a careful stop a proper two paces behind.

“Would you like me to have the room set to rights, sir?”

“No. With any luck, they’ll be occupied a while. It’ll keep until morning.”

“Right.” Lestrade wanted to ask what Mycroft had intended to accomplish, but now was not the moment. Besides, he needed to time mull over his observations and come to some conclusions of his own.

Mycroft turned his head a fraction, and a weight seemed to settle upon him. “I’ve some business to attend to before I retire.”

Lestrade recognized the signals: _business_ , before _I_ retire. An offer to relieve Lestrade of tonight’s duties.

“I’ll pick up some papers and meet you in your office.” Lestrade made it a statement so that Mycroft would be less inclined to deny him. From what Anthea had said earlier, his master may have formed some erroneous assumptions that needed to be put to rights.

Mycroft was silent for a moment, and Lestrade readied a second attempt in case Mycroft did try to put him off. Then he said, “The bedroom. I can handle correspondence just as easily from there.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll attend you presently.”  
\--

 

“Well done, John.” The hot, low rumble of Sherlock’s voice next to his ear penetrated through John’s adrenaline haze. Sherlock’s grip tightened on his scarred shoulder. He tried to focus the awareness that seemed to be buzzing along his nerves. Sherlock’s thumb brushed against the tip of John’s cock. For an instant, John’s attention focused on that one point, and then it flooded over Sherlock’s touch, spreading across his skin and pooling in the hot lines where the paddle had left its mark. He craned his neck to the side, but he couldn’t see.

“Sherlock!” he called.

Immediately, a tall, lanky form moulded itself to John’s back, pushing his chest and limbs firmly against the wooden X. Sherlock’s left hand curled around his hip. Like Mycroft’s had. John squirmed, but Sherlock had him firmly pinned, and struggling only served to rub the raw skin on his reddened ass against the scratchy front of Sherlock’s trousers.

“He touched you,” Sherlock growled.

John nodded, then stilled when Sherlock pulled away, separating their bodies

“You let him touch you.”

John tugged once, hard, against the leather restraints that bound his wrists and ankles. “Bit tied up.”

Sherlock’s hand traced the line of John’s hip around and down to wrap his elegant fingers around John’s shaft. He gave it a firm squeeze, and John’s cock jumped in his grip. With his other hand, Sherlock delivered a harsh slap against John’s abused ass. “Have you conditioned yourself, somehow, to take pleasure in this sort of treatment? No. You like it when I touch you, but what Mycroft did failed to arouse you. Why, John?”

“Dunno,” John grunted. He steered his mind away from why, exactly, he _enjoyed_ himself with this mad tyrant of a master. He’d been avoiding examining the subject for days, and had become quite adept at it. Using the little leverage he had in his restraints, he bucked up against Sherlock’s hand, seeking more friction.

“You did tell me the first night we were together that I had been the cause of your arousal, not the beating I delivered, nor the other slaves’ presence in the room. I thought you were employing petty flattery. Perhaps there was a degree of truth in your statement.” Sherlock formed a loose fist and stroked John’s length at a maddeningly slow pace.

“You find me physically attractive,” Sherlock continued. “But that in itself is not enough to overcome the humiliation you feel at your social station. What else, then? How do you make yourself endure, even enjoy our encounters?” Sherlock swung around the side of the cross to stand face to face with John, then grabbed hold of his cock again.

John’s lips parted as he tried to gulp in enough oxygen to fuel his reeling brain. “I have to,” he said.

“Always a soldier. But that’s not all of it, is it, John? You don’t just lie back and think of the Empire. I’ve never seen anyone act like you do when you’re with me. How are you doing it? How?” Sherlock tightened his grip on John. It should have hurt, but John’s body was already firing so many conflicting signals that the additional pressure just felt good.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he slurred.

“Is that the difference? Others have tried to please me out of fear of punishment, but not you. You may not fear me, but you do hate me, despite what you say. You hate what I represent. You chafe against any reminder of your slave status.” He slid a finger under John’s collar and tugged, cutting off the flow of air for a moment. “You defy me at every opportunity. You obstinately guard against surrendering anything beyond the bare minimum required for compliance.

“And yet.” He twisted his hand around the crown of John’s dick and wrung a soft moan out of him. “You give me this. How? Do you pretend I’m someone else? No, you already find me physically attractive. That’s not the problem. Perhaps you imagine _you_ are someone else, someone who enjoys being a slave. No, you’d balk at putting yourself in such a role. What then?” His hand quickened, stroking John ruthlessly as John strained forward, then releasing him altogether. “Tell me,” he demanded.

John’s muscles had clenched tight, straining toward release. When Sherlock’s touch deserted him, he gasped at the near-pain of it. He opened his eyes to be greeted with the sight of Sherlock’s pale gaze, very close.

“Us,” John panted. “Us.”

“What are you saying?” Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock brushed his fingers along the underside of John’s cock, a maddeningly light touch.

“I imagine we’re different.”

“Different people, you mean?”

“No, no. Damn it.” John writhed in his bonds, but could find no relief.

“Tell me!”

“You’re you, and I’m me, but we’re partners. Equals. Together.”

“Together,” Sherlock said slowly.

John closed his eyes to avoid seeing the inevitable disdain in his master’s expression. “It’s just a fantasy.”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s hand tightened around John’s cock. “Yes, that’s it.”

Sherlock glided to his knees. Though the cross blocked John’s line of sight, he felt Sherlock settle his lips around John’s cock. John was so close to the edge already that when the hot mouth enveloped him all the way to the edge of where Sherlock’s fingers still clutched him, he lost control. He shouted a nonsensical progression of sounds, and his hips pumped forward desperately as Sherlock swallowed him down.

John slumped in his restraints, shaking. Sherlock leant his head forward against the crease of John’s thigh. They stayed like that for a minute or more as oxygen returned to John’s bloodstream.

As John’s heart rate evened out, his logic returned, and he realized what he’d said. He tried to formulate a strategy for denying the confessions Sherlock had wrung out of him with too-clever fingers. “Sherlock,” he said. His voice sounded wrecked.

Sherlock jerked away. He stumbled to his feet and took three steps backwards, away from John. With some distance between them, John could observe better. Sherlock’s face was very white. A wet spot was spreading on the front of his gray trousers. His eyes were fixed at the centre of John’s chest.

Sherlock’s lips parted, then drifted closed. “John,” he said. “The photograph. Those marks.” Then he turned and fled the room.

John stared after him, blinking. The door swung shut and clicked ominously. John tugged against the leather straps, but they didn’t give. In the silence of the empty room, he muttered, “Bollocks.”  
\--

Lestrade stopped briefly by the common room, where Sally assured him that all was running smoothly. Then he made a dash to his room to fetch the tablet with the day’s reports. When he at last met the door at Mycroft’s bedroom and stepped inside, he thought for a moment that his master had yet to arrive.

Then Lestrade caught sight of a glass of port held in an elegantly manicured hand extending past the wings of the armchair facing the fireplace.

Lestrade set his tablet down on the desk next to a pile of Mycroft’s correspondence, which seemed not to have been touched. He examined the tableau by the crackling fire, working out his best course of action. Mycroft had to know he was there, but he’d said nothing. Combined with the day’s earlier behaviour, the current silence sent alarm bells ringing in Lestrade’s head.

Lestrade divested himself efficiently, folded his clothes into a neat pile, and placed them out of the way. He fetched the silk pyjamas he kept here—he had an old flannel set in his room, but these were for Mycroft—and re-dressed himself. He pressed his fingers against the tag at the front of his collar to feel the etched initials of his master. After a moment, he stripped off his shirt, leaving his chest bare to the chilly air of the room. He didn’t expect to be cold long, in any case.

The hardwood floor felt chilly on the soles of his bare feet, but the thick rug by the fireplace felt invitingly soft. He stepped up to the side of Mycroft’s chair and held out his hand.

Mycroft looked up at him, considering. In the flickering shadows of the firelight, the weight of a hard day’s work showed clearly on him.

“Come to bed,” Lestrade said.

“There’s correspondence.”

“It will keep.”

“I’ve not finished my drink.”

Lestrade plucked the glass out of Mycroft’s hand and downed the port with a satisfied smile. Mycroft had begun to keep the Portuguese wine in his room since he’d seen Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade sipping some she’d got him last Boxing Day. He set the glass on the mantle and held out his hand to Mycroft again. “You didn’t want to drink, anyway. If you wanted to drink, you would have got brandy.”

A small smile crept onto Mycroft’s face. “Alright. I surrender.” He placed his hand in Lestrade’s and allowed himself to be pulled out of his chair and towards the bed.

Mycroft stood silently while Lestrade stripped off his jacket and draped it over the back of the nearest chair. Mycroft had his own valet, of course, but Lestrade had learned to take over these duties on occasion. He’d got tired of watching Mycroft stand stoic and impassive during his evening routine, keeping up his persona of Lord and master when he should have been preparing to rest. Now, Mycroft seemed to relax with every piece of his finely-tailored armour that Gregory removed.

After Gregory untied Mycroft’s tie and unbuttoned his vest and shirt with practised fingers, and had begun on his trousers, Mycroft let his eyes drift closed, and spoke. “You did very well tonight, Gregory.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Lestrade knelt down to remove Mycroft’s shoes, and set them aside.

“But you did. You helped John understand his role in all this: your advice, your reactions set the proper context for John’s experience.”

“Oh,” Lestrade said. He hadn’t thought of it quite that way. He wasn’t sure he liked the thought; it reminded him of putting a wild horse in with a tame one who could set a good example.

“It was well done,” Mycroft said, brushing his fingers against Lestrade’s temple.

“I wasn’t aware I was so crucial to the proceedings.” Lestrade gave Mycroft a gentle nudge toward the bed, and he sat obligingly so Lestrade could strip off his socks and trousers.

“You were absolutely crucial. I told you this morning.”

“Right,” Lestrade said. That’s not what he’d remembered from the conversation, but then again, he often found himself surprised after the fact at what a discussion with his master had actually been about.

Lestrade fetched Mycroft’s pyjamas from the cupboard and got him dressed while he mulled over Mycroft’s interpretation of the evening’s events. His master sat on the side of the bed, watching Lestrade go about the business of putting the room to rights, and finally switching off the bedside lamp, leaving only the dancing glow of the firelight. Mycroft pulled back the covers on the near side of the enormous bed, and reached out a hand to Lestrade.

Lestrade put his hand in Mycroft’s and allowed his master to pull him into bed. Mycroft tugged Lestrade in against him, with Mycroft’s broad chest pressed to Lestrade’s back, his arm wrapped tight around Lestrade’s waist, and an ankle hooked over his leg. The fire crackled in its grate. Lestrade felt warmth seeping into him, wearing away the day’s worries.

Mycroft leaned his forehead against Lestrade’s bare shoulder. “You’re quiet tonight.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Putting the pieces together.” Mycroft’s arms wrapped more tightly around Lestrade. “Alright. Tell me.”

Lestrade wasn’t certain he’d worked it all out, not yet, but he ought to make a start. “You made an excuse to punish John.”

“Yes.”

Lestrade paused a moment while his next thought solidified. “But you have no interest in disciplining other people’s slaves. You wouldn’t have gotten any pleasure out of beating John.”

“No.”

Another puzzle piece slotted into place. “You didn’t really expect him to pass on information about Lord Sherlock.”

“No.”

“So I thought it through backwards, assuming that you accomplished what you wanted, else you wouldn’t be so pleased.”

“Well observed.”

“You made an enemy of John, I think, but I’m not sure that was your aim.”

“A regrettable side effect.”

“You did inspire Sherlock to show some interest in his slave’s well-being.” Lestrade paused again, allowing his thoughts to settle. “Was it a test? To see if he would intervene on John’s behalf?”

Mycroft’s smile curved against Lestrade’s shoulder. “The Imperial Police Force lost a good thing in you, Gregory.”

Lestrade couldn’t prevent the tension that seized him at the mention of his former life. The memory of his disgrace should not have had the power to haunt him this way, he scolded himself. He took a deep breath and forced his body to relax, first his shoulders, his arms, then down and out, willing himself calm. In mere moments he was again lying pliant in Mycroft’s arms. He had no illusions, however, that his master had overlooked the lapse.

Lestrade cast about for a way to offer a distraction that would not seem desperate. Before he could make an attempt, Mycroft released him and rolled onto his back.

“It’s been a trying day, Gregory. Sleep now.”  
\--

 

“John? John.”

John pulled himself up through an achy haze to focus on the voice in front of him. A beautiful woman swam into view, her face scrunched into a frown.

“Can you hear me?” she asked.

“Yes.” He tried to reach out to her to determine if she was indeed real, but found his hand caught fast. He looked up to see leather bindings around his wrists that pinned him to a wooden X. The night’s events came back to him in a rush. “Damn.” He looked at the woman again, clad in striped pyjamas with a red silk robe over them, with her hair done in a neat ponytail. “Anthea?”

“The very same. Hold still. I’ll get your feet out, first.” She disappeared from John’s line of sight, but he felt her hands working at the bindings on his ankles. “Stand, come on,” she prompted.

It wasn’t until John got his feet under him that he realized the relief he felt in his shoulders, which had been taking more of his weight as he slumped. Another moment’s work and Anthea had unclasped the cuffs on his wrists. “You might want to—“ she began, but John had already started to waver. She rushed past the wooden X and caught him around the middle. “Come on, then.” She dragged him over to a padded bench against the wall and dumped him onto his side. John grunted as his tender backside came into contact with the cold wall. Still and all, this position was a drastic improvement.

Anthea tugged off her robe and flung it over him. “Mycroft should know better,” she muttered.

“He left me with Sherlock.”

“He should know better than that, too.” She took a few steps away, toward the table of supplies. “You’re lucky I think of everything.”

“I am?”

“More than you know. Here, drink this.” She returned with a bottle of water, which she pressed into his hand. John propped himself up on his elbow to drink. She asked, “Are you injured?”

John stretched against the bench, feeling protests from cramped muscles and a sharp ache from the beating he’d taken, but nothing broken or bleeding. “Nothing I can’t treat on my own.”

“It’s just past midnight. You should get back to your room. Can you walk?”

“Think so.”

With Anthea’s help, he was able to stand and hobble down the corridor to his quarters. John concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other until the motion became automatic. Once his muscles had remembered their proper function, he felt steadier on his feet, and could stop leaning on Anthea. She stayed with him, though. John found he was grateful not to be left alone with his thoughts just yet.

“Thank you for helping me,” he said.

Anthea tucked her hands into the pockets of her pyjamas, which seemed as neatly tailored as a suit. She said, “It’s not you I’m helping.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, although he didn’t.

“Are you fed up with him yet?”Anthea asked, giving him a sideways glance. “If you want, I bet Lord Mycroft could make arrangements to buy out your contract.”

“No!” John fought back a stab of the same surprising panic he’d felt in the woods earlier, and made himself speak more calmly. “No. I belong to Sherlock now.”

“I can see that.” Anthea stopped in front the door that led to the personal slaves’ quarters. “Here we are.”

“I can make it from here.”

“Alright.” She handed John a bundle of his clothing, which he hadn’t even seen her pick up. “Keep the robe.”As she disappeared rapidly down the hallway, he realized her phone hadn’t made an appearance at all.

John pushed his thumb against the keypad to open the door, shuffled down the silent corridor to his own room, unlocked that door, and stepped inside. In the spill of light from the corridor, he could see that his bed was filled with six feet of naked Sherlock Holmes, sprawled on his back, snoring softly.

John let the door click shut behind him. He tossed his clothes into the growing pile on the floor and shuffled over to the desk to turn on the lamp there. His copy of _Freedom through Obedience_ lay open on his desktop next to a print-out of the photo he’d taken with Sherlock’s phone. Sherlock’s scribbling marred the surface of the print-out and gathered in the margins of the book’s pages. He’d been working. He’d left John alone in order to chase the next clue on his own.

John considered his options. His body was pleading desperately to lie down and sleep. His doctor’s brain was urging him at least to check out his arse and make certain that the damage wasn’t worse than it appeared. Another part of him wanted to shake Sherlock awake violently and demand an explanation for his unbelievable thoughtlessness.

He let his head drop forward and took a deep breath. He’d known what he was getting into with Sherlock. He was a _slave_ , he told himself for the hundredth time. No one would look out for him, so he had to keep his guard up. No matter how much Sherlock tempted him to give his trust, he mustn’t do it.

A warm hand curled around his bare calf. He turned to see Sherlock with one eye cracked open, reaching over from the bed. “You’ve got a new robe.”

“Your powers of observation are astounding, sir.”

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, propped his head up on his fist, and looked John up and down. “Did Anthea try to convince you to defect?”

“She didn’t try very hard. I did choose you over Lord Mycroft not that long ago.” John again steered his mind away from the uncomfortable evidence: his failure to even consider Mycroft’s order to spy on Sherlock, or Anthea’s offer to break Sherlock’s contract. _Very loyal, very quickly_ , Mycroft had said. Was that true? Today he’d been publicly berated, shot at, and beaten with a paddle, but this was the most alive he’d felt since becoming a slave.

Sherlock was watching him closely, so John said, “Although I bet Lord Mycroft wouldn’t leave Lestrade chained inside a torture chamber.”

“Oh, so you’d rather I treat you as my brother treats his slave, is that it?” Sherlock’s lip curled in disdain.

John remembered vividly the curve of a smile on Lestrade’s face as he’d danced with his master. He also remembered the sharp edge in Mycroft’s voice as he’d addressed John in the library that morning. “Not precisely.”

“Not remotely,” Sherlock corrected. “Mycroft is fettered by the rules of society, and dare not defy them, even when it comes to his precious Lestrade. No risk for them, no danger, just hedonism and a relationship of convenience built on societal necessity.”

John quickly shook his head. He felt far from certain about the nature of his friend’s relationship with Mycroft—and when had Lestrade become a friend, anyway?—but he couldn’t endorse Sherlock’s assessment. “You’re wrong.”

“Seldom if ever. What they have is not what you want.” Sherlock sat up. “You told me what you want.”

“Yes, about that. I didn’t mean—“

“Didn’t you?” Sherlock’s eyes were dark in the muted glow of the desk lamp. John couldn’t read them. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“I was desperate,” John said quickly. “I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“All the more reason to believe it.” Sherlock uncoiled from the bed and stood. He took John’s face in both hands. Slowly, giving John plenty of time to pull away, he leaned in to plant a gentle kiss on John’s lips.

“What are you doing?” John muttered against Sherlock’s mouth.

“Imagining.”

“Imagining what?”

“What you said before.” Sherlock pushed the robe off John’s shoulders, baring him to the chill air of the darkened room. His hands traced lightly up John’s sides as his gaze remained fixed on John’s face. The touch felt—not possessive, as Sherlock’s touch often did, but something else. Reverent. He raced his fingertips along John’s collarbone and across his throat, carefully avoiding John’s collar.

John’s mind stuttered to a halt as the sense of Sherlock’s words reached him, and he grasped what it was that Sherlock was imagining. “Sherlock…”

“Are you in pain?” Sherlock asked, breath warm against John’s cheek.

“A little,” John said truthfully, though until Sherlock had brought it up, his awareness of his body had narrowed to the brush of Sherlock’s touch against his skin and the growing heat of arousal simmering in his belly.

“Do you want to hurt me in return?” Sherlock traced his fingers up John’s arms. “It’s only fair.”

John pictured Sherlock stretched out naked against crossed wooden beams, writhing as John lay into him. The room suddenly felt much warmer. “You’d let me hit you?”

“Would it make you happy?”

John overcame the sore temptation to say yes immediately, and turned the image over in his mind. He couldn’t imagine Sherlock enjoying the sort of helplessness John had felt tonight. He didn’t like the idea of Sherlock’s expressive face twisted in distress, his teeth gritted to bite back pleas to stop. Taking pleasure in another man’s pain held no appeal for John. “Not really,” he said. “It would seem wrong to tie you down.”

John half expected Sherlock to chide him for a fool, but Sherlock remained stone-faced as his hands roved over John’s body. His touch slid down John’s back until his fingers hovered above the stripes he’d recently left on John’s ass. “If someone else had hurt you that way, I would kill him. Even if it were Mycroft. No one touches what’s mine.”

“What’s _yours_.” A touch of warning crept into John’s voice.

“That is not what I meant.” Sherlock gripped John’s arms and held him still, as if to ensure John would pay attention. Funny that he thought John had any hope of looking away, even for a second. “I mean there’s a connection between us. I belong to you as much as the other way ‘round. Isn’t that how these things work?”

“Sometimes,” John said weakly. Sherlock’s pale eyes seemed too clear for lies. Dangerously clear.

“It’s difficult for me to express what I mean about this. You’ve said you’re also inexperienced in love, so I thought you’d have some sympathy.”

John’s mouth dropped open to emit a shocked chuckle at Sherlock accusing someone else of lacking sympathy.

A frown creased Sherlock’s brow. “At least provide some data. Did you enjoy what we did tonight?”

John almost snapped that no, he hadn’t enjoyed being chained up and lectured by Lord Mycroft, thanks very much, but Sherlock’s intense gaze caused him to really consider the question. Sherlock’s hitting him had been... exhilarating. John had felt Sherlock’s focused interest channelled into him with every blow he took. They’d worked together perfectly, rising to Mycroft’s challenge. And as John had counted out the strikes, arousal had roared up to claim him, as bright as the thrill of battle. He said, cautiously, “I could have done without the audience.”

“But you did like it?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward a fraction.

“In a way,” John said, but wished an instant later that he could bite the words back. He shouldn’t. It was bad enough that he could enjoy what Sherlock did to him; he must not _admit_ to that level of depravity.

“What way? Describe it.” Sherlock leaned even closer, eyes roving over John’s face as if he could deduce John’s desires from all the things he wasn’t saying. “I want to know what you like. I want to see your expression with your eyes wide open when you achieve orgasm. I want to know the taste of every part of you. I want to listen to your heartbeat race. I want to know what hurts you, and what makes the pain go away.” He pressed his whole body against John’s, and bowed his head against John’s temple so that his words were a mere breath in John’s ear. “All your secrets, John. I want you to give them to me.”

“Stop. Stop shamming. Stop it!” John pushed Sherlock away. Sherlock stumbled back, bumping against the wall with none of his usual grace. John clenched his hands into fists to keep them at his side. “Don’t pretend you care about me. It’s too... Just don’t. Be Sherlock again.”

Sherlock was silent for an uncomfortably long moment, staring at John with his brow furrowed and his lips slightly parted. Then his nonplussed expression evaporated into cold neutrality. “Fine.” He brushed his hands down his sides, as if straightening a suit he wasn't wearing. “It was getting boring, anyway.”

Sherlock returned to the bed and flung himself onto it. In stark contrast to his earlier sprawl, he now seemed to be tucked into as small a space as possible, flattened along the wall.

John’s heart still beat frantically, as if he’d been running for his life. Staring at Sherlock’s pointedly turned back didn’t seem to be calming him. “Sherlock?” John ventured.

“I’m tired, John.” Sherlock’s voice did indeed sound weary. “Lie down and be quiet.”

John stood still. He made his fists unclench, though his instincts screamed at him to _do_ something, to fight. _Sod off_ , he told them. He’d done what he resolved to do: resisted Sherlock’s attempts to manipulate him. He made himself breathe deeply until his pulse had calmed.

John climbed into bed. The pain in his arse had quieted to a dull throb, and under the tangled blankets, warmth began returning to his chilled extremities, but still he couldn’t get comfortable. Sherlock lay unmoving on his sliver of bed. The cell of a room suddenly seemed unbearably lonely.

John curled his arm around Sherlock’s waist and waited for the inevitable protest. When none came, he scooted closer, slotting himself against Sherlock’s back and tucking his arm around Sherlock more tightly. Sherlock unbent a bit, at ease in John’s arms. That, at least, felt right.


End file.
